


Replay

by doug



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Heavy Plot, I Don't Even Know, I am sorry (and I am not), M/M, Mindfuck, Puzzles, Rape/Non-con Elements, alternative endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doug/pseuds/doug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavy WIP! I've been writing it like for ages, I've got a really large draft, just... can't connect the pieces. So I post it to maybe attract some attention, find a beta, share at least something (maybe that will finally inspire me to post the whole story).</p><p>So... Poor James seems to be stuck for good. Until Harry finds him. Will the plot stabilize? Will the evil forces of Silent Hill take what is theirs? Is it all a dream?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lost Days](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/104874) by Alba Aulbath. 



> Written at the time of the blackest of depressions.  
> Sorry, English is not my first language, so I assume I accidentally brought in some writing style from my native language. 
> 
> I expect my readers to try and find all the possible references later.

_And all the days become a castaway..._

 

The days stretch beyond any possible boundaries,  
the time is slipping through James' feverish mind as slow as if it was honey;  
the night doesn’t even come anymore.

All James has now is a whole town that stands still, caught in smoked glass. Silent Hill has won over the time.

Little happens here after he has got out of the Lakeview Hotel. It’s awfully quiet now, not a wet thump of flesh against the asphalt, not a creek of old rotten wood under some unfamiliar weight, not a gradually growing hiss of static in his radio, nothing. Nothing moves here, too: the wind had choked on the fog and died; the monsters vanished long ago, and maybe, just maybe, James could have got used to their presence once.

 

He tried to escape.  
Boy, he did.  
Every time he approached the town's line he met a high brick wall, or a tall metal grating, or just found himself standing at the edge of a concrete cliff above the void full of milky fog. Those walls, or gratings, or cliffs (as if something chewed off the road) stretched seemingly forever when he tried to go around them, but that, of course, was to no avail. The town was laughing at him, keeping him inside and probably never wanting to release him.

He could swear he saw a neon sign that told ENTER just above the precipice once. 

 

How could a person be this lonely, left in this god forbidden place only to be frozen in time? He doesn’t need to shave, he never feels anything remotely similar to hunger, and while the dirt and dust pile all over the place, his body remains untouched. Even the old blood stains come off somehow. His skin is pretty clean, and the fact of it is slightly unnerving. Because _really_ , it doesn't make any sense.

In a desperate attempt to break out of this maddening, horrible mockery of a forgotten resort James crossed the lake, not even bothering to check the boat or supplies – it’s not like he needed anything anymore by that time – and reached the other part that was closed for him previously. The streets yet unseen excited him for a while, and as soon as he'd got maps and tried several doors, adrenaline rushing through him in an all too familiar way, he spent some time fighting the locks, adjusting to different corridors and the oddly situated stairs. God, he'd been too damn long on the other side of the lake. Perhaps, he should have better stayed where he had been; he would never know.

The other part of the town manages to scare him once, and that is a lot, considering his impressive experience, but this is a horror of absence, absorbing emptiness of where people once lived and felt and created. James feels sadness rip through him with such a force he gasps, unable to breath in for a moment. Too much places are hostile to him and won't open, so he goes back to the historical society.

The holes are gone now, of course they are. The thought of Eddie's body down there makes him unease, a bit guilty even, and he briefly considers finding something, breaking the entrances... going deep underground to get him. Then he finds himself guided by presentiments to the cemetery. It is dead in a very unpeaceful way. Angela and Eddie lay on the cold ground, stiff and livid just as mannequins. Their glassy eyes look indifferently into the gray blanket of the sky, but the facial expressions are soft and clear. There's no way James knows whether there is life after Silent Hill; still, both the man and the girl look free of regrets and suffering. When James digs the graves for them, the soil wet and already dug before, he feels too old for his nearly thirties. He might as well be his father's age, it wouldn't feel too different.

He pities Angela and sympathizes strongly with Eddie, thinking about their fates and the way they could reflect each others' lives in a way. But he's not there for long inner arguments and deep thoughts. He wonders where Laura has gone, then lowers the bodies into the dark graves. And once he's finished, he mourns the people he haven't got a real chance to know. Or, who knows, maybe he managed to understand them well enough. In the end, there're too much 'maybe's and not a damn answer to any of it.

There is a grave with his name, too.

 

He goes to the old part of the town, willing to try his luck once more. Again he searches through the streets, blind despite the map, someone's scribbles all over it interrupting his way. Nothing. Nothing, except for imaginary ghosts of people who fled from here. 

He spends some time studying the notes and the holy book on the religious organisation of the Cult. He sees a familiar robe and pyramid helmet he already saw on the painting before and cannot suppress the shiver. The beast his mind created. Or was it created before and then came to life through his imagination? He touches the drawing, remembering the sounds and smells and obscureness the monster was woven from, but the images are dull, thin.

His problem is that he can't if any of it is real.

He opens a new chapter when a strange sound disturbs him. A quite forgotten, as if dim memories are covered with a thick layer of dust, sound of stranger's footsteps. James braces himself and readies his gun. What is it now? An intrusion into his kingdom of a city's corpse, stale fog, stench of rot — that's what it is —  
and he will never give his owning to anyone, never -

The sound dies.

James is sick to death with himself. His spirit is no longer willing, so after all he just ends up sitting in the darkest corner of the darkest room and thinks of nothing.

The days probably go by.

He ceases to feel anything - the cold, the smell, the light, the dull pain, the heart's overwhelming beat throughout his body - and then he feels even less.

 

Shadows lurk around, harmless and not real at all, then settle down.

 

By the time his soul's almost dissolved in the town's, another sound startles him out of this weird state where he is deprived of deprivation. The knob rattles; James stares at it impassively.

The man comes in,  
aims his gun at James,  
then says "Jesus Almighty".  
And then, "Are you alright?"

 

James watches the stranger detachedly.

_He's not really there, is he?_

The flashlight blinds him, the man approaches him carefully, the question clearly seen in his eyes; James, despite his rigid body, tilts his head a bit, still seeing everything through the haze, and the man backs away a little. They both study each other for a few heartbeats, motionless, then the man forces out "Can I help you?" and looks worried. "For all I see, you're not like those monster creatures outside. Can you, err, speak or move?"

Now the stranger sounds genuinely concerned; moreover, he comes closer and squats down near him, which has not happened around James for a while. James considers to wait until the man gets tired of his silence and goes away. Instead he licks his lips (slowly, and the man watches his dry tongue moving over the even drier lips) and says in a raspy voice that sound nothing like his: "Wait."

The man frowns. "Need a hand? Can you stand?"

"Guess so", and his own voice makes James cringe.

"Have you been injured?"

He mutters "No" and makes his first attempt to move. Needless to say that he fails at this task, and the stranger tries to support him, but his body protests. James falls onto the weary concrete yet doesn't feel any pain at all. His body feels alien, as if he's a guest in someone else's home. There is distance between his mind and his limbs. A vast, smoky, lifeless plane.

"Does it hurt?" The stranger sounds so sincerely sympathetic that James can't help but try to smile reassuringly at him. "Let's try again."

After moment's hesitation the man shoulders most of the James's weight and they both stand up. When his bulky legs stop wobbling, the stranger sighs in relief. "Good, good. Now, one step at a time. Yeah, like this."

He continues to support James while they slowly walk a circle around the room. "How rude of me," he says suddenly, "sorry, this place makes me forget all my manners. My name's Harry Mason. Yours?"

Every step he takes feels easier, less shaky, and his hands are able to grip and hold onto again, so he grips Harry's shoulder tightly and stands straight. His numbness and awkward shuffling must look pathetic, but it seems no one actually cares.

He squeezes out "James."

"Nice to meet you, James," Harry tells him, his voice somewhat brightened. "Now..."

Oh no, no questions. James realizes he has become so accustomed to silence surrounding him that this smallest of conversations has already tired him no end. He still can't escape it.

"I don't really want..."

Yet Harry surprises him.

"It's okay, I get it. Honestly," he searches for James's eyes, and when they look at each other, James somehow believes him. "But if you want, I'm here to help. As for me, though, I'm looking for my daughter, Cheryl. We were going on vacation, then the accident happened, and when I woke, she had disappeared…"

James doesn't know what to tell him. To be honest, he doesn't really care. But the town chose to trap another victim in its delusions, so James, in a way, feels sorry for poor father Harry who, he thinks murkily, will probably never see his child again.

He nods in reply. They walk a couple of circles more, Harry patiently mirroring his steps by his side. The only dim ray of light has impaled the air through the crack in shutters and isperfectly still, even the dust doesn't dance in the light. James idly steps on the spot. He wants nothing. He thinks of nothing. His mind has been atrophied for too long. Harry bothers him, he understands, letting himself a small luxury of being honest. Harry has a voice, a body that obeys him, warmth inside him, a less dead smell around him. He has (or at least had) a daughter, and his eyes have more life in them than James has in the hole set of his organs.

There's a shadow on the other side of the grimed glass in the door; it nearly merges with the darkness. Harry might not notice it, but James' sight is more acute, he had more time to become accustomed to the blackness around, so it is only natural that he can distinguish the moving silhouette. He doesn't tell Harry that they have an audience now; instead, he simply pulls Harry into the corner and listens. The shadow stands, as if listening to them as well, then dissolves into the air.

James clears his dry throat and says, "I guess we'd better go." Harry asks nothing (though it's obvious he hasn't seen anything) and pulls out a map.

The map reminds James of the one he found himself long time ago, with marks that show buildings, other ways, entrances or barricades. This one is pretty clear, comparing to the map James had in the end. More virgin.

"There was another person, Cybil," says Harry in a dropped voice. "She's the police officer who went after me before we got into accident," he coughs, "and she also hasn't seen Cheryl. Besides, I've got the note in an alleyway," Harry rummages in his pockets, then shows James a piece of paper with 'To school' scribbled on it, "and I'm really lost. This is a sheet from Cheryl's sketch book, the handwriting is also definitely hers, and I was just on my way there when I found you."

"Hold on," says James. "There's no use for you to enter this building if your goal is the school."

Harry shrugs.

"Some roads are barricaded... you know, tall walls and gratings? That's weird, but I can't do anything with them, just find another way. Now when I was going down the street, I found a key in the doghouse with a sort of label, I came to this place... and here we are." He waits, apparently for any kind of reaction. James just can't feel himself caring at all, but he nods and says, "Then let's go to the school."

"James," Harry tells him indignantly, "I wouldn't be so fucking calm if I heard of the walls, of the monsters, and I wouldn't go anywhere in this damned place with a complete stranger. What's wrong with you?"

James shrugs, mirrors Harry's suspicious look and replies, "I don't know for how long I've been there."

They both fall silent again. James feels incredibly placid, supported like that, and even if some doubt gnaws at the edge if his mind, he doesn't pay attention to it.

They walk out of the room.

*

She didn't even love you on those days, couldn't love anyone, and while her scent was all over the place, on all of your shirts, so alive and enticing, her heart could as well be dead and halfway rotten in the coffin of her ribcage. The slight sweet smell of decay. The evil thoughts you had. But she hurt you too much. She invoked such hatred in you that you were poisoned by your own venom. 

Aren't you (a) selfish Salome, ungrateful, fallen, loving only those who are dead — those who cannot call you responsible?

Your past will hunt you down.

*

and down you go

*

Everything blurs in James's vision after the complete blackness he nearly drowned in. Or, more likely, it's everything being clear and sharp in the dim light, so now his eyes water a bit. He couldn’t care less. All his efforts are concentrated on standing upright and keep his eyes wide open: there's some sort of sleepiness in his head, a tempting option to say "screw yourself" to the world and stay ignorant. But that's not going to work.

Harry is an average guy, evidently just a bit older than James, more high-spirited than James, more living than James. Why would he be stuck in this town? Surely, there is something going on, something was set up while he was in that... state. In the back of his mind the fans start turning laggardly, the dreadful creatures wake up. 

He doesn't now this man who supports him readily, so he is in no position to judge Harry, to theorize about his reasons to be here. But, sparing him no glance, he feels that Harry has already made a decision about them.

They stand in the long corridor lined with several doors. When they take the first step, it sounds dull yet loud enough. Harry pulls him to the exit. James shakes his head and tries his best not to tumble.

"The other rooms," he says. "There may be a plenty of things."

Harry thinks, then nods. Apparently, he's already come across the puzzles that town can offer. Great, so James doesn't need to explain everything.

The first door to the left won't budge, the second, too. Doors to the right lead to small rooms with some litter piled in them. James fishes out a marker, tries it on a piece of cardboard and hides in his pocket. Doors on the opposite are locked (no big surprise) except for one near the exit.

Harry is the first to enter the room, and when he does, he tenses and quickly raises the handgun he was clutching all the time. He doesn't fire, though, because a second later he breathes out noisily, utters "Shit, this place...", lowers the gun and looks back at James. 

He is frozen on the spot. Unlike Harry, he wasn't scared by their reflections in the grimy wall-size mirror on the opposite wall. It's a bare mannequin with only half a head that made him stop. The mannequin in the center of the room has a flashlight taped to its belly, and that would surprisingly come in handy as James's own is long dead. James approaches the figure, takes the flashlight and looks at the mirror. Harry shifts awkwardly, standing in the doorway. But it's not about him.

James watches his own thinned face, ragged dirty hair, ashen color of skin. shadows outlining his eyes. He feels... less human, looking like this. "I am a wreck," he states; Harry shrugs and says, "A shower, a good meal and a half-day sleep, and you're gonna be okay." Then he smiles and adds, "Why, afraid that some girl will turn you down?"

James doesn't respond.

He notices a small inscription on the mirror near the other wall that somebody has (written) with his finger on the dust. It says:

WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE HEADING?

As he points at the writing with his flashlight, Harry comes closer. James thinks he can feel the vibes of anxiety that Harry gives off. The man must be going crazy with fear for his daughter.

"I can't make a head or tail of it, you know," Harry forces out. "The more the time passes, the less I understand."

James looks back at the writing. Little wonder that it reminds him of Neely's, with the same hint of guidance. Just like back then. A chill runs up his spine and his head jerks involuntarily. Harry looks at him. He seems to find something in James's eyes... something that wasn't quite there before.

"Huh, I bet you woke up," he says. Then... James is not sure; what he hears is, "But it would be better for you to stay asleep".

"What did you say?" James asks dumbly. Harry looks at him and answers, "Nevermind."

James shrugs, casts a glance around the room and says, "Guess we need to go to that school of yours."

"Now that you say it, I don't think I love this idea very much," Harry admits. "But I must find my daughter as fast as I only can. It terrifies me to think she is out here on her own..."

"Then why do you talk so much, I wonder," says James in a voice that doesn't exactly indicate any possible interest. He pulls Harry with him; together, they leave the building.

*

The everpresent fog hits James in the face with all the chilly wetness of its body. He coughs, and then he coughs more, for the lump of gray mist has stuck in his throat; Harry, who has clearly relaxed in the other man's presence, glances at him with concern. James waves him aside.

The road, as far as it can be seen, is blocked on the left end by a high grating; it stretches in the opposite direction, halfway fading into the dim light. Strangely, James cannot remember the place. Be it alikeness of all the streets in Silent Hill or his own forgetfulness, he feels as if he entered the other town.

"I still don't get it," Harry says. "We went there with Cheryl to find a resort, not a ghost town. When you first came here, had it already been like this? Like, abandoned?"

James merely nods in reply. All of a sudden, a ghost of Laura is there; the clearly innocent girl who looked unaware of the monsters wandering in the streets. Angela never mentioned them, too, though it would be only natural to tell him about them, for he could try to protect her. And even considering her lunacy, fear for her own life should have made her seek for some protection anyway. Eddie said he saw those creatures as well. Maria...

Maria was one of them, that doesn't count.

They come up to the next house, and James can't think of a reason for Harry to see monsters. All the more reasons to be on the alert.

A loud ripping sound, then a child's sobbing is heard from inside a two-story building. Both men tense, but nothing happens. Harry runs up to the door and tries it; the lock doesn't budge.

James approaches the porch too. He notices a glimpse of something in the bushes near the entrance. Through the grayish green of a plant the pink is seen. What James pulls out turns out to be a pink stuffed rabbit with big eyes and... this fucking grin. He has a rip in the front.

"God, isn't that creepy," mutters Harry and takes the toy. "You poor boy. Hey, look at this."

Somebody shoved a piece of paper and a crayon into the rabbit. On the paper, a row of numbers is written in children's handwriting. Harry’s face becomes serious, he hides the note into the pocket of his jacket and motions at James to go. They leave the rabbit on the lawn to stare brainlessly into the fog.

The crossroad they reach is lifeless and empty, much like James's mind lately. They pass it and soon run into a road-in; Harry curses, pulls out a map and crosses both ends of the street. James peers over his shoulder and notices that there's only Levin Street left open for them. But as soon as they move back, a couple of monsters welcome them. These are not deformed armless things James knows quite well. They are more like dogs, but dead, rotten and resurrected dogs with chunks of meat peeling off them. Anyway, Harry quickly finishes them with a couple of bullets. Despite the apathy, James feels disgust when he crushes their skulls with his boot just to make sure they'll stay dead.

"You asked about me being there," he tells Harry. "Actually, I'm certain there were no dogs out there."

"But there were other things instead, right?"

"Kinda. They were more human-like."

"By the way," says Harry, frowning, and James doesn't like the change of subject. "Where is your stuff? Seriously, there's no way you've been here without any weapon, some first-aid..."

"I must have left it all on my way to this part of town," James explains. 

"Then how did you make it without any help?"

He shrugs. "There were no monsters for a while."

"Huh." Harry starts moving, frown still on his face. "And when did they appear again?"

"I don't know the exact time. See, there were no monsters, I searched the whole town and couldn't find the way out. Then I hid there for a while, and some time after that you found me, and the monsters are there again." James speaks patiently and calmly, but good Lord, he does not want to speak. This, and also black-out he just discovered in his memory. Because his journey through the town looks incomplete to him. He went there to find Mary and... and what? No panic, he's going to remember. It's just that he is learning to think again.

"What?" he hears Harry asking and repeats, "I can't remember anything properly. At all. About my own experience, about this fucked up town. I can't."

Harry shakes his head and asks, "Then why did you choose to go with me? You know, if it were not for you, I guess I'd already be in school. You slow me down there..."

"Fine," James snaps at him, "yeah, I'm slowing you down and I don't give a fuck. I don't know anything, just maybe it's better to stick to you instead of sitting there and rotting like everything else in this town. If you think you're gonna be okay on your own - go ahead."

"It's not about me," Harry tells him, and he's so very sympathetic it hurts, "it's about you."

"I don't know what's about me," says James. He already feels tired. Doesn't want to do anything. "I'm empty," and he never meant to sound miserable, "so if you want to leave me, do it now."

"You didn't get me, James." His name sounds soft and soothing the way Harry utters it; it must not be uttered like that. "I don't think you can be okay on your own. If you concentrate, you can help me find Cheryl, and then we'll get out of here together. It may be faster and safer to walk the streets if you'll be with me. Honestly, it doesn't matter for me if you care, because I do."

Deep inside, James knows the choice he must make will determine more than just his route through the city. He can finger the hole inside him, probe it, touch it in almost physical way; the memory? or a part of himself? Something's missing for sure.

Yet there's another part of him he feels differently; like a plant took a root in his body and is growing inside of him, pushing the organs and tissues out of its way. 

Harry is so human, he likes it.

"I'll go with you," he says.

Harry smiles at him.

The hole opens up wide and aching, yet the weight disappears from his shoulders.

*

the rope tightens

*

"Now, I presume you know the streets well enough?"

"Sure." The lonely sounds of their footsteps accompany them while they slowly reach the next house. 

"And I also take it there were no barricades."

"Yeah, that's right."

"My plan is to find the way to Midwich Street. Perhaps, we could do it through Matheson Street, because Finney's blocked."

"And if Matheson's jammed as well..."

"Then Bloch Street."

Figures. "I'm fine with it."

They turn to the Levin Street. Distant screams in the air can be heard; Harry explains that they are flying monsters that attacked him once. The noise from the radio becomes louder as they reach Matheson Street, and two of the flying abominations suddenly dive on them. James dodges attacks easily, but when Harry readies his handgun, he shouts, "Don't waste your bullets!"

"It's calmer when they are dead," Harry shouts back and shoots one of them. It hits the ground with a dying screech. The second creature screams and flies higher away into the fog.

"We'll see it later," murmurs Harry and lowers his handgun.

"I hope not," murmurs James. Then, louder, "Guess what? Matheson Street's blocked."

When they continue down Levin Street, more dogs swarm around them, and the space becomes tight so there's no chance of simply hide or dodge all of the attacks. Near one of the buildings, a pipe lies, fallen off the corner. James picks it up, swings a couple of times, then brings it down on the head of a dog that was tailing him for a while. The skull crushes with a wet sickening smashing sound. James feels a momentary pain in his arms - must be because he played dumb for such a long time. 

It's been a long, very long time.

As soon as they finish off the dog monsters, they hear a scream coming out of the house next to them. Harry freezes in his steps.

“No fear” James mutters. “It’s probably just an invitation to come in.”

The door is obviously stuck, but one of the front windows is broken, so they manage to crawl inside through it. The living room greets them with no signs of life, but when Harry’s flashlight beam catches a paper sheet on a coffee table, he rushes to it.

“Cheryl…” he whispers. The drawing shows a dog with its tongue hanging out sitting next to a book. “I’m pretty sure that’s one of the pages from her sketchbook.”

“But why a dog with books… Actually, nevermind,” says James and comes up to the bookshelf where a figurine of a dog looks at him playfully. He takes a book behind the figurine, which says ‘The Wizard of Oz’. Inside, the pages are carved out, and in the improvised storage a key lies.

“Wow, that was fast!” says Harry with a small smile. “So you’re familiar with these puzzles, huh?”

James doesn’t respond. The book next to the one he took bears a remotely recognizable red symbol. However, when he opens it, he finds out that all its pages are blank. He puts the books back.

In the kitchen, they find a first-aid kit; all the other doors in the house are stuck, and the door to the bathroom is closed. James opens a backyard door with a key. They hear somebody knock on the door inside the house. Harry tries to pry any of them open, but to no avail, so they go outside, somewhat disturbed.

*

“The hell?”

Outside the darkness has fallen on the earth, and with the mist not going away it limits their field of view. Harry frowns. “We need to make it quick.”

And so they do. They successfully dodge the dogs and those flying things Harry has mentioned, but by the time they reach the school porch, Harry is completely out of breath. That’s when James realizes that Harry does not only look older, he is _actually_ older, but how many years, that he decides not to ask. The door is locked, however, and Harry shakes the door-knob in panic. Dogs bark in a distance. 

“Shit,” James swears. His gaze falls on an open skull laying on the hand-rail. He picks it and sees some grey mass inside of it. Harry opens his mouth to say something, but ends up gaping at James as he thrusts his hand inside with the slightest hint of disgust on his face and fishes out yet another key, a big and heavy this time. “You are a magnet after all.”

“I just stopped asking my common sense for help.”

James fumbles with the door and they get inside just in time to dodge another attack. Harry pants. James hesitates and then locks the door behind them, the latch turning heavily. As he does that, he swears he could hear the click of the heels on the street, and then somebody tries the door from the other side, which makes his blood run cold. “No fucking way,” James mutters to himself, “no fucking way.”

“You think they will be able to open it?” Harry asks him nervously. “Should we let them in?”

“Did you hear the shoes?” James parries his question.

“Maybe… What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to know what that might mean,” James says to him. “Now let’s take a look around.”

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

_I am the reason for your missing child; he might be home, but there's no trace_

_*_

In the eerie gloom of the entrance hall they wait a couple of moments until their eyes adjust to the darkness, listening intently to whatever may hide from their view. Finally, Harry turns around and comes to the reception area. It offers them a map of the building, an empty handgun and a couple of notes written in red.

“10:00. Alchemy laboratory. Gold in an old man’s palm / The future hidden in his fist / Exchange for sage’s water”

“12:00 A room with songs and sounds. A silver guidepost is untapped in lost tongues / Awakening at the ordained order”

“5:00 Darkness that brings a choking heat. Flames render the silence / awakening the hungry beast/ Open time’s door to beacon prey”

“I don’t even know where to start,” says Harry. “Frankly saying, I don’t even know what that means. Are these notes a kind of clues?”

“Most probably, yes. Alchemy laboratory… chemistry lab.”

“And a room with songs and sounds… music room. Huh, I get it now.” Harry winks at James. “What about darkness?”

James shrugs. “I think we can deal with it later.”

“Well,” says Harry as he studies the map. “There’s a lot of classrooms. Do you, um. Wanna split?”

“I think I’m gonna have the handgun,” James waits for Harry to nod, “Just in case, you know. Would you share the ammo?”

“Yeah, of course.” Harry hands him a pack of bullets. “Right or left?”

“I’d like to check this door first,” he points at the door behind the reception, “Also the infirmary and then go to the right.”

“You go to the infirmary,” Harry says. “I’m sure there will be something interesting behind that…” He opens the door and pauses. “Oh, you might want to see it.”

James follows him into the room. A large gritty painting is leant against the wall. It depicts two figures clad in robes, hanging on the walls smudged with dirt and something else, and a door between them. 

“I think I consider this a bad taste,” Harry jokes somewhat nervously. “Doesn’t feel to me like it belongs here.”

There are shadows along the edges of the painting, and on the right side James can see, if he looks hard enough, somebody else standing. But the bottom of the apron hides his legs, and the gloom envelops the rest of the figure; when James blinks, the image is gone.

*

Apparently, Midwich Elementary does not want them to separate. Both double doors that lead into halls are closed, and the infirmary is empty except for a blister of painkillers and a pack of bandages. They look at each other with a mute question, then Harry pushes the door into the courtyard.

The radio starts to hiss. Harry looks around nervously. “I don’t like it. It’s too dark here to send bullets flying around.”

James squints and then points at vague moving figures that approach them, making the radio murmur louder with each step. “Here they are.”

Harry starts and lifts the gun. “The hell? I think I’ve seen them somewhere. They killed me.”

They look like little kids, maybe six year old; they giggle annoyingly, and their faces are impossible to make out properly. What is more important, however, is something they carry, which glistens sharply in the gloom. James aims and shoots. Then shoots again. Once his hands remember how to do it, he gets a feeling that he used to wield a bigger gun against bigger monsters. Blood rushes to his head at the memory, pressure growing against the insides of his skull.

Harry helps him to take down the last one. “Creepy, eh?”

“So you didn’t like your last encounter with them?”

“It was a dream,” says Harry, coming closer to the dead things and watching them with a hint of contempt. “When I blacked out in a car crash, I saw a dream. I went through some backyards which I found later in this town… These things came at me waving their knifes and stabbed me. Then I woke up.”

James shrugs. “At least you woke. I actually think we can save ammo and try to go past them, they aren’t that fast.”

“My mind will be easier once all of them don’t move. Hey, what’s this?”

They come to a structure that is labelled “Clock Tower” on the map.

“There are some indents…”

“Thanks, Mr. Obvious,” Harry says with a sarcastic smile. “I actually think it is rather poetic. Maybe they struck to announce the breaks.”

James shrugs and heads for the door opposite to the one they came through across the yard. It is open, and when the heavy leaf closes behind them, the radio starts to hiss quietly again. This time, however, the figures waiting for them are not seen clearly, as if they were woven from the air. They manage to catch both men by surprise and stab James rather painfully nonetheless.

“You little shits,” growls Harry and shoots one of them in the head. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll live. Come on, we need to make it to the second floor.”

So they run, occasionally wrenching themselves free from the monsters’ grip. Both of them can’t help but sigh in relief when they close the doors behind them only to find nobody on the staircase. Harry yanks James by the hand and flashes his light at him. “Wait. Do you need bandages?”

“I’m not sure.” James leans on the wall and rolls up the leg of his jeans. “Nah, it’s not that bad…”

Harry frowns. “That won’t do.” The wound bleeds slightly, and the skin around it has swollen significantly. “Okay, they missed the blood vessels and all, but I think you’d better take care about it. Or rather… Come on, I’ll help.” He squats and pulls the bandages out. “Of course, we should clean it as soon as possible, too…”

“You fuss about it too much,” James says. He feels awkward and at the same time, much to his amusement, embarrassed. The pain pretty much is just not there, and he did not lie when he said it was not that bad. But Harry makes it sound serious, and now — look, he has already finished.

“Does it feel too tight?” he asks. “Or should I…”

“No, no. It’s okay, really.” James tries to walk. “Doesn’t hurt much. Er… Thank you,” he mumbles.

Harry shakes his head. “Not at all. Are we going now?”

*

After that, they do not try to split and take different routes.

In the chemistry lab they are met by a quiet laugh from these annoying creatures, with which they deal quickly, and a statue of a hand, holding tenaciously onto something golden. Harry shrugs and fails to pry the thing out of its grip. “Well,” he says, “it just does not want to let go. Maybe we should not disturb it.”

In the adjacent room they find an unlabelled bottle. James unscrews the lid and tries to sniff the liquid, but Harry tears the bottle away from him. “Are you a moron? What if this is a poison? An acid?”

“I just wanted to know,” James scowls at him.

“I guess we can try it on something else, like… Do you have a slip of paper or something?..”

Just like that, James startles. His hand reaches automatically to his inner pocket in the jacket. He pulls out a small rectangle which is completely blank. He stares at it and hands it over to Harry. “You know, I forgot about it completely,” he chuckles.

“Maybe there’s something more useful in your pockets, too,” Harry says with a pinch of irony in his voice. He drips some liquid on the piece of paper, and it burns through. “Wow, that’s some powerful stuff. Maybe we can try… Huh, we can beat the hand with it.”

“Do you think so?” James asks with doubt. “What about the golden thing?”

“Nah, gold is extremely resistant to chemicals,” Harry says, “If it is in fact gold, of course. Let’s try.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

“Seems like there’s hell of a lot of things you forgot”.

They go back. After some hesitation Harry drips the liquid onto the hand, and it hisses, melting the statue away. Harry makes a face, pinches his nose and pours the whole contents of the bottle on the statue; James steps back and holds his nose, too. “Ugh, the smell.”

The golden thing, as Harry predicted, stays unscarred by the chemical reaction, and Harry rushes with it to the nearest sink to wash off the liquid. He brings it back to James, a golden medallion glittering dimly in his hands. The inscription on it says “The Fair Sun.”

“Now I’m not sure what kind of solvent that must have been,” Harry murmured broodingly.

“Don’t you care about it?”

“Well. It was stored in a plastic bottle, but the hand dissolved easily. Either it was a non-concentrated acid, which might not have burned through the hand, or the hand was not made from plastic.” Harry stares at the bottle. “Okay. I don’t care.”

*

In the music room Harry takes it upon himself to mess with piano. James loiters around the room, finally choosing to lean against the wall with his arms crossed. He listens to Harry hitting the keys as he looks for the right order. “So, what is it?”

“ ‘First flew the greedy Pelican, eager for the reward, white wings flailing. Then came a silent Dove, flying beyond the Pelican, as far as he could.’ ”

“So this is about the black and white keys, right?”

Harry laughs. “Of course. Hey, I think I’ve got it.”

James’ attention gets caught by a certain movement in the corner of his eye. When he turns, he sees a wiry hand out of nowhere; it carries a piece of chalk. Colour drains from James’ face. Slowly, the red words appear on the blackboard, written in a perfect handwriting:

_thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting_

“I think I see something funny,” James says tensely. But just as he reaches the blackboard and touches the writing, smearing red chalk a little, Harry cries triumphantly, and a silver medallion falls from above the blackboard on James’ head.

“Ouch! Damn thing.” The medallion shines “The Envious Moon” at him.

“You alright? So what did you say?”

James looks at the place where the ominous hand left its message. The blackboard now appears to be smudged with rusty flakes. “Nothing. Probably just my imagination.”

*

They carry the medallions back to the Clockwork Tower, James having insisted that the indents were shaped just like them. They force their way through the halls and get to the yard. When they insert the medallions, they hear a distant rumble.

“So, only the darkness that brings the choking heat is left.”

“Sounds like hell.” James smiles humourlessly. “Now we haven’t looked in the basement yet.”

The walk down there turns out to be completely uneventful. When Harry pushes the red button on the boiler in a claustrophobically tiny room, all they hear is a low humming. They exchange glances and go back to the tower.

“Look, the door is open now. Hell, was it made for dwarfs or what? I nearly banged my head,” Harry complains loudly. He goes down the rungs carefully and shouts to James: “Hey, there’s nothing here, just a short corridor. And, um, I think I can see something there. Another rungs?”

James comes down after Harry, fighting a strange chill running down his spine. He is visited by a certain sense of deja vu, and shakes his head to try and chase it away. However, when they climb the opposite rungs, the same sense strikes both of them at once, because they stand with their backs to the tower in the same very courtyard they just left.

“What?!” Harry cries in sheer surprise. “How could we… How is it?.. Did we come back?”

James keeps silent, no less astonished than his companion. He goes and tries the door that leads to the school entrance, to no avail; he points with his chin to the opposite door, but it appears to be closed as well.

“Well, I don’t know what to do in such a situation.”

“Maybe there’re some other door, or a tunnel somewhere…”

Some time after their fruitless search they stand in front of the tower again. A sudden idea visits James, tingling his temples. “You know, it will sound crazy…”

“It depends. Do you suggest going down there again?”

James nods. “At least, maybe we can go back to the previous place.”

He goes down first, and this time he feels like crossing the corridor took more time than before. They climb out into the courtyard again.

“Okay, little wonder,” James says. “Wait. Do you see it?”

“Looks like a kind of seal,” Harry says, tension palpable in his voice. “I don’t remember it being here before.”

A huge ill-omened dark-red circle is drawn on the flagstones in front of them, as if draining the air of light. James frowns at it. “Because it was not there before.”

They search the courtyard again. The locks appear to be broken and won’t yield, but Harry, to their mutual surprise, manages to dislodge the one on the door that leads to the entrance hall. It does not help them much though: there is nothing interesting here, and other doors seem to hold a personal grudge against them, perhaps for damaging one of their lot.

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry cries out in frustration. “We are trapped here again. This is ridiculous. What does this place want from us?”

James rubs his temples. “We must have missed something. Maybe we should go back and see if we have overlooked the details.”

They trace back their steps, carefully studying the walls, the door, the ground. Harry avoids looking at the seal. His gaze wanders everywhere, finally settling on the Clock Tower. With a squeal, its door opens.

“Huh,” James flinches. Harry looks at it with his mouth agape. “Damn me if it does not _invite_ us in.”

They go down the rungs yet again, and the corridor now takes full five minutes to cross it. The air has somewhat thickened, too, and the chill palms their faces, their breath turning into the light mist as it escapes their mouths. James shivers.

When they emerge on the surface yet again, the courtyard has practically sinked into the gloom. The seal hasn’t gone anywhere, mocking them instead. 

“How do you think, did we get back?” Harry asks. James shrugs.

“We will never know.”

The door on the west of the yard creaks open, and they hold their breath for a second.

“I think we made it,” James says. 

“If this is how you prefer to call it…” Harry shakes his head and laughs. “You know, I start to think we have wasted too much time. If Cheryl were here, I’d already find her.” He comes up to the door. “I hate this fucking place. Playing with us like that.”

James does not reply, choosing to follow him silently instead.

*

The building has changed dramatically. Back then, it looked abandoned; now it’s disintegrating. The paint peels off the walls, revealing decaying metal; the floors gave way to the grating with occasional holes in it, and the ceiling is smeared with something nasty, dripping red, rusty chains hanging from it. Their shoes give off a loud echo as the men run through the corridor.

“Woah!” Harry shouts as a couple of monsters latch on him. “Where do we go?”

James hits a creature that was aiming at his genitalia with his handgun, and jumps to the first door he sees. Miraculously enough, it opens, providing no resistance at all. “Here!” 

Harry rushes after him and slams the door behind them. “That was fast, they really scared me!” He gasps. “Where are we?”

James stares at the opposite wall. A huge fan turns slowly with a quiet screech, caked in blood, the mess in front of it on the floor emitting a strong stench. Harry’s face grows a bit green. “I’m not sure… I’m not sure I appreciate modern art so much,” he tries to joke, but James ignores it. As he stares into the center of the fan, allowing its languid turn to hypnotize him, he feels something gnawing at his brain. 

He has seen something like this before. He was used to looking at things like that.

_What have I lost_ , he wonders. _Why are my memories so vague?_

“Hey, you look like it’s a normal sight for you,” Harry shouts at him indignantly, tearing James out of his musings. “Can you at least try to look a bit scared?”

“Maybe it was a normal sight for me once,” Harry whispers. To his own surprise, he feels a pang of guilt. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I feel for you, Harry, I do. With your daughter lost and creatures roaming around here, such disturbing images… You must be going crazy with anxiety.”

“I am,” Harry says, and his fists tighten. “This is so, so wrong, and I am so confused. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

Harry looks at him sharply. “I don’t follow you on this one.”

“It just guides us,” James says. “This town does not play games with us, it guides us through. You need to stop thinking so hard, making sense of it. Because you can’t.”

“Are you an expert or what?”

“I think I start to remember something from before,” James mutters. “I think I used to try and figure this whole thing out.”

“Did you manage to do it?” Harry looks at him almost with sympathy. 

James is at a loss for words. “I’m still here, so I must have failed to do that.”

Harry pats him on the shoulder; such an open, friendly gesture feels so long forgotten for James he can only blink in surprise.

“I’ll help you, James. You help me, and I’m going to return the favour.”

*

In the Storage Room they find a pink rubber ball; Harry huffs at it, but stuffs it into his pocket nevertheless. “Let’s see if the dogs will chase it.”

Through the Hall, they reach the classrooms in the northern wing of the school. Among the scattered playing cards on the table in one of them a yellow card stands out; James grabs it and barely manages to see a picture of a key on it when Harry yanks him out of the room. “Fuckin’ things,” he mutters. In addition to jumping them, they started emitting soul-chilling sounds that resemble weeping. 

They run through the rest of the corridor into something that was the infirmary once, but now it looks like somebody removed his or her bloody bandages, scattered them all over the floor and died in the corner, for there can be seen a shapeless dark lump that neither of the men dares to approach. There is, however, a tube of burn ointment on one of the shelves; James does not hesitate to snatch it.

They go past the reception. “What the,” Harry frowns in frustration as they stare at the door between the two bodies hanging on the wall. James feels the weirdest sort of amusement rising in him; he even comes up to the door and touches it with his fingers. “It’s not painted”, he says. “I mean, _anymore_. And there is a horizontal slot here.” He points it out to Harry, who raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I think I’m already better at this. See, this once was a painting of the door. And this,” he points to the yellow card in James’ pocket, “is a picture of the key.”

James cocks his head, pulls the card out and inserts it into the slot. The lock clicks.

“Told you,” Harry says smugly. James looks at him and realizes that Harry tries to snap them out of it, to brighten the situation somehow, otherwise everything they do does not make sense and is not supposed to lead them anywhere, and the whole atmosphere of the place drives Harry up the wall with anxiety. He has already lost his child, technically, even though he refuses to accept it and tries to find Cheryl as soon as he can. Harry must joke, or despair would have overtaken him already. He refuses to call it reality. He sees absurd where James really sees nothing but Silent Hill that he got used to.

James gives Harry a little smile, and Harry returns it; really, James shouldn’t feel warmth spreading over his body because of it. 

*

They enter the girl’s bathroom, all ruined and dirty, although James really does not feel like it.

“Cheryl?” Harry asks after a moment’s hesitation. The reply does not come. “That bathroom stall at the far side is closed.”

James shrugs. “There’s nobody there, let alone your daughter.”

Harry comes up to the closed door. “Ugh, there’s blood everywhere,” he whispers. He knocks at the door. “Hey?”

They both startle when they hear a knock in reply. Harry knocks louder. “Hey! We won’t harm you!” But intently as they listen, nobody knocks back.

“Do you think I imagine things?” he asks. James shakes his head.

They exit the bathroom and turn to head further down the southern hall, but the large gate blocks their way.

“Huh,” James blurts out. “It was not there.”

Harry heads back to the room with a painting through which they came into the south wing, but the door doesn’t budge. “The door! We left it open,” he says. “Oh, come on.”

James pauses, thinking hard. “Let’s try the girl’s bathroom again.”

They come inside. Harry raises his eyebrows at James. “So what?”

James motions at him to come out. Now it’s apparent they are back on the first floor.

“Looks like we have been on the second floor.”

Harry shakes his head and mutters something incomprehensible.

James scowls at him. “You know, we probably should go back, maybe we have missed something.”

*  
They stare at the body hanging on the chains in the boy’s bathroom on the second floor. “I don’t think I can handle it anymore,” says Harry quietly, looking into the face of a corpse which resembles Harry in a creepy way. His hair, his jacket. “I can’t. This is too much.”

He sinks onto the floor and pulls his knees to his chest. “I’m not sure we will get out of here. I’m not sure my girl is out there anymore.”

James feels a tiny pang of pity stinging his heart. He sits down close to Harry and says, “You’re giving up too early for my taste.”

Harry keeps silent, his eyes fixed on the hanging corpse. James, unsure of his own actions, lays his hand upon Harry’s shoulder and squeezes it slightly.

“I think she is waiting for you. She’s a small girl, fast, and a smart one too, she must be alright. But we need to find her, the sooner the better for you two. Listen, I’ve remembered something. I met a girl there, Laura, she was around 9 years old. She played in this town all by herself, and monsters didn’t harm her at all.”

“Really?” Harry asks, and a sparkle of hope alights his gaze. “What do you mean, like, they didn’t see her? Or she was too fast for them? She must’ve been a brave girl.”

“No, the thing is…” James hesitates before continuing, “She might have not seen them at all. Maybe it’s because she was really a child, these things didn’t haunt her.”

Harry looks at him, obviously regaining his high spirits back, but then frowns again. “Then how come _we_ are haunted by them? Is something wrong with us?”

“I don’t know, really. I think it’s more like something’s wrong with this place.” James puts his hand away from Harry’s shoulder and stands up. “But we will never know the truth if we don’t move. We have to continue searching for her, Harry.”

James does not say that even if they move on, the truth will not be guaranteed to them, and though Harry may understand it, he picks himself up slowly and stands up as well.

“Wait.” James comes up to the corpse. “There is a shotgun on his shoulder.”

“I’m not gonna touch it,” Harry says stubbornly. James sighs and takes the shotgun off, shoulders it and aims at the broken mirror on the wall. “It’s alright,” he mutters. “Might be useful in the future.”

*

After fumbling with the gate does not yield any results, James pulls the door to the Teacher’s Room, and sighs exasperated when the radio snaps into static. They deal with monsters rather efficiently this time, and still it turns out there is nothing of use in this room.

“So we can’t pass the gates, but… Hey!” Harry gestures for James. “Here’s another door.”

They stumble into the next Teacher’s Room. It is lit strangely, limelighting the table with many blue phones on it. From the look of it, they all are disconnected.

“Nonsense,” Harry huffs indignantly. They reach the door into the hall when one of the phones starts to ring. They both nearly jump from surprise. Harry looks at James with diffidence and, after a moment of hesitation, goes to pick it.

As Harry answers the phone, another one begins to ring. James raises the eyebrows, asking Harry mutely if he should pick it up. Harry does not answer him, listening intently to the muffled voice James can’t make out. He cries, “Cheryl?!”

James has no other thing to do than answer the damn phone — just to stop it buzzing. Through distorted noise he barely can hear the voice at all, which reminds him, with a certain shock, of his experience long ago at the beginning of his story, although he does not remember exactly what it was. This time, it’s an unfamiliar male voice. 

“If you are fright… of dying and … holding on, … see devils tear… life away. But… you… ade… peace th… vils are real angels f… you from th… Earth.”

It goes on and on, repeating itself. James listens to it for ten times, trying to figure out the sense of the message, until Harry pats him on the shoulder, shaking him out of the trance. “What is it?” he asks anxiously. “Is it about Cheryl? I’ve heard her voice, she was calling for me!”

James shakes his head. “Listen to it yourself, I can’t really understand. Something about devils.”

Harry takes the receiver and listens, then shrugs. “Just static.”

“Huh.” James takes it back and still can hear a voice in the distance. “Are you sure it was just static?”

Harry looks at him somewhat concerned. “Yeah, I am. Now come on, don’t pull my leg, we need to go.”

*

They reach the stairs, and Harry suggests going to the roof, since they haven’t been there before. They find a key dangling in the pipe, and as Harry goes to plug the hole (“No way! That the fucking ball had to come in handy like this!”), James feels the weirdest of shivers. He looks over the enclosure down onto the street, but thick fog hides the ground from his eyes.

_I fell once_ , he remembers suddenly. _Hate roofs._ Then another memory hits him. _I also fought someone. Definitely hate roofs._

Harry calls his name, and he turns the resistant valve. The water gurgles and they hear a tiny clank down there. 

*

They collect the key in the courtyard and open the double doors on the second floor. Past the library and the locked classrooms — which appear to be locked from the _inside_ — they make it to the northern hall.

In the locker room something thrashes inside one of the lockers, throwing itself against the walls repeatedly. “You know, maybe we don’t need to go there,” says Harry nervously. James shrugs and comes up to the shaking locker. Its door is jammed, and when Harry, still uncertain about it, tries to wrest it open, somebody inside it goes still and asks loudly, “Hey, is someone there?”

“Yeah, we were passing by…” Harry trails off, shakes his head at his own stupidity and continues, “Hey, how did you end up like this?”

“I’m a teacher,” the voice says. “I was searching for a child there, but obviously somebody thought it would be fun to push me into an open locker and lock me up. Stupid kids!”

“We need to get you out, then,” says Harry. James scowls at this and asks too, “Do you have any weapons on you?”

“Hey, what do you mean? I’m a teacher!”

“Have you seen any strange creatures there?”

The voice hesitates before replying, “Yes, I’ve seen something, but I just thought it was my imagination.”

“But they were trying to attack you, weren’t they?”

“No, just looking at me… I got scared alright, but I wasn’t attacked. Hey,” the voice grows harsher, “What’s with those questions? Will you let me out or what?”

“I just want to know if you’re dangerous” James says simply, keeping his voice neutral. He asks Harry, “Got any ideas?”

“If we had a crowbar… Or we could take the door off the hinges somehow. Maybe, maybe we can find something?” says Harry, looking at James expectantly. The latter shrugs. “We can try. What’s your name?”

“Arthur Schwartzman. I’m a teacher from Midwich High… Now will you help me?!”

“We’ll try our best,” says Harry vigorously.

It turns out they are not given a chance to demonstrate their good intentions. As they reach the exit, Arthur manages to kick the door especially hard, and with another grunt, it is torn out. They rush back, Harry offering his hand to Arthur. The man does not accept it, dismissing him with a nod, and stands up with a groan. He looks just a bit older than Harry. His coat and white shirt have dirty smears on the arms.

“Thanks for your attention anyway,” he says with a laugh. “Now, what are you two doing here?”

Harry suddenly appears tensed and somewhat guilty, as if he blames himself for forgetting that his daughter is a priority. “I’m looking for my daughter. She’s 7 years old, short, black hair…”

“What, you both look for his daughter? That’s interesting. I haven’t seen any girls,” and then Arthur laughs again, which sounds just slightly unsettling. 

“How does the one you’re after looks?”

“Hey, I’m not _after_ her, I’m just worried about her,” he shrugs. “She’s my student, she’s missed her last class, so I came to ask if somebody saw her there.”

“But this is Midwich Elementary,” James points out.

“Right, because here everybody knows her. She’s got a little sister, she comes to pick her after school.”

“How does she look? If we happen to see her, we can tell her that you looked for her…”

“She’s dark blond, with a hint of red, 15 years. Short hair. Actually,” Arthur hesitates, “don’t tell her anything. I didn’t look for her directly, I was just wondering if she’s here, because I don’t want to report her to anybody, if something happened to her sister it’s okay to miss my class. But when I came here, everything changed; it all didn’t look the way you see it now.” He makes a helpless gesture. “I thought that if anybody’s there they might need my help.”

“Okay,” says James. “If you see his daughter around here, let us know, okay? Like, call for us or something.”

Arthur looks a bit tensed after his explanations. He mumbles “Okay, same goes for you,” and exits the room. James frowns at this.

“I wouldn’t trust him one bit.”

“Why?”

“He sounds unnatural.” However, James cannot explain what exactly made him wary of Arthur. “Right, now we have to look for two girls.”

“And we still haven’t had any luck,” Harry says, sorrow filling his voice. “I’m so worried about her…”

“No time for tantrums,” James says hastily. “Hey, look. He has left something. A classroom key, it reads.”

*

The classroom they stumble into is calm and dark. They don’t find anything in it, no items to collect, however there’s a door leading further into another room. James says, “Let’s check it.”

Harry stays frozen for a couple of minutes, looking somewhere in the corner, and as James approaches him to see if something is there, he suddenly takes James by the hand and forces them into the adjacent room.

Which just happens to be filled with these annoying shadow kids. As they deal with them, James asks Harry, “So what did you see? Something worthy?”

“I’m not sure”, says Harry, finishing the last of the monsters. “I can tell you, but I have a feeling we shouldn’t go back again.”

“Scary stuff?”

“No, it’s just… It was a girl. Actually, she’s just like the one Arthur described. She sat there in the corner…”

James steps back to the door. “Then why don’t we go back…”

Harry leaps to him. “No, listen! We won’t. That girl had a revolver…”

“So what? She’s just as scared as you and me, we could take her with us.”

Harry frowns. “No, no. She raised that gun at me and put a finger to her lips, as if she didn’t want me to, er, to mention it to you. I think she does not want to be found. The classrooms here were locked anyways.”

“She’s probably shocked. Besides, she has no reason to trust us. I don’t see why that’s such a big deal…”

Harry shakes his head desperately and says quietly, “James! I would like to protect a little girl as much as you do! It’s not that I am afraid she can shoot us if we go back. But I think she must have a reason to sit there in a place full of monsters and hide from people. You see, I haven’t shot her, so she knows I’m not harmful to her, but she still does not want us to tell about her. Hey, what if she… what if she really hides from that teacher?”

James considers the idea. “Well, he didn’t seem to be a person I could trust, that’s true. So you think we mustn’t mention her if we meet him again?”

“That’s right. Shit,” and Harry looks real desperate as he swears, “maybe we _can_ go back and give her a gun, or check if she’s hurt… Can we possibly explain we won’t hurt her?”

“No. Now you told yourself we have to move on.” An idea comes to James and he adds, “What if we will try to help her if we meet her again? I mean, with Arthur searching for her she can’t stay in one place forever, and if we stumble upon her, we can talk her into coming with us.”

“There’s a good chance Arthur will find her before us. I think we’d better try to distract him.”

“Alright. And what if we find your daughter before that?”

Harry looks a bit confused. “Sorry, I… I think I’d prefer to flee this place with her. I care for other people, but I care about my daughter even more.”

James nods. “Then maybe I could stay and help that girl out.”

“Are you sure? You said you had already been there for so long, I thought you would be happy to go with me”, Harry says, now looking even more confused. “I mean, you already had to escape, and instead you are going to stay there.”

“That’s a bit hard.” James pauses, thinking over how he could not find any exit before. “Honestly, I don’t know. Choosing between me and her, I’d probably choose me.”

“That’s why you got stuck here,” says Harry.

“What do you mean?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

James opens his mouth to repeat the remark, then decides against it. “Am I selfish?”

“I think you are just stressed,” and Harry sounds very genuine as he blurts that out. “You are not a hero, you are just a man who cannot save everyone. By definition. And you are going crazy. Think about yourself.”

James hesitates, then says, “Thank you.”

Harry gives him a little smile. “She had such red eyes…”

*

A key dangles on a chain from the knob of the Library Reserve door. James narrows his eyes at it. “And we have just missed it?”

“Not anymore, apparently.” Harry unlocks it, and they enter, immediately started by the sound of someone knocking.

“Who is it?” whispers Harry, and James notes that now he feels more shaken than ever before. “What’s this noise? Is there somebody here, or is just like back then in the bathroom?”

“Fuck it,” James mutters. He sees a huge shelf along one of the walls; an open book lies on it. The knocking is back again. “Try to ignore it.”

“Hardly possible,” Harry laughs. 

James comes up and takes the book. “What does it say?” Harry asks.

“ ‘Poltergeists are among these. Negative emotions, like fear, worry or stress manifest into external energy with physical effects. Nightmares have, in some cases, been shown to trigger them. However, such phenomena do not appear to happen to just anyone. Although it's not clear why, adolescents, especially girls, are prone to such occurrences.’ “

“Does not sound very reassuring,” Harry whispers, and — oh Jesus, James can see his eyes glistening in the dark; Harry does everything to suppress his shivering, but it shows up. “Let’s go, anywhere, just away from it,” he adds.

“Are you scared?” James asks him, and the softness in his own voice surprises him. Harry stares at him and nods. “Hold me a coward,” he whispers and gulps forcefully, “but at least I’m honest. This place drives me crazy.”

James takes him by the shoulder and leads them into the library, where he, astonished by his own actions, embraces Harry awkwardly, holding him lightly, expecting Harry to break free. He not only fails to do this, but presses himself tighter to James and clings to his forearms.

_This is something I haven’t felt for ages,_ James reflects. It feels right, reassuring; Harry breathes evenly above his shoulder. James realizes slowly that he really feels now something else that the hollow void inside of him, that the nothingness in the back of his mind subsides. He didn’t care before, but he starts to care know. It feels like he is rising from the bottom of the lake, like he is breaking through the ice and taking a sweet and very much required gulp of air.

He blinks once, twice, and hugs Harry tighter. “Everything is going to be fine,” he says, and Harry looks at him — judging by his gaze, he finds something that was not here before. They stand close, looking intently at each other, and Harry breaks into a small smile suddenly.

“I think you feel better now. At least you don’t sound like a zombie anymore” he says.Then he adds, “Thank you.”

It all feels so human again.

Harry points at yet another open book. “I bet it is about some more creepy stuff.”

*

On their way down into the basement Harry tells him a story about how he had once discovered they had snakes in their newly bought house. “My wife went crazy,” he chuckles. “She freaked out so much she demanded that we move across the whole country to her parents’ house and call animal control.”

James smiles at that. “Did you get rid of them?”

“Of course,” Harry laughs, “but she was alert for another two weeks until she realized it.”

They reach the basement. There are corpses hanging from the ceiling on chains, but both men make a tremendous job of ignoring them this time. James even feels a bit high-spirited; they made a progress, there’s nothing else to do and nowhere else to go in this school, obviously they are on their way to something big. 

In the storage they find ampoules of oxycodone and a syringe; while Harry stares at them with a slight disgust, James wraps them in his handkerchief and tucks away carefully.

They go to the boiler room; James notices Harry starts to tremble again, but he feignstranquility. They see two valves and pretty soon figure out how to turn them to clear their way. James looks at Harry; Harry sighs and rubs his forehead.

“I’ll go first,” he says. “Enough bullets on you?”

James nods. “But I insist you take the shotgun. My aim is still a little off.”

“Alright.” He takes the shotgun and bullets for it and hands James the rest of his handgun bullets. “I feel something is waiting for us here,” he says coarsely. 

James follows him into the elevator, which turns on and starts to crawl down; they keep silent. The door opens into a large room which is dimly lit — just enough to make a circle of burning candles and a corpse inside the circle. Harry starts and makes a strangled noise.

“Careful,” James whispers. He looks around with intense eagerness, but it is Harry who shouts, “What the!” and aims at a large hissing figure that creeps out of the far corner. The light outlines the contours of a big lizard — just like they read.

Harry shoots. The monster does not mind it and only starts crawling faster towards them.

“Harry!” James shout and leaps away to the other corner. “Harry, I will distract him! You have a shotgun, aim at his mouth!”

Harry looks frozen in a shock, but he immediately collects himself and shouts back, “Okay!”

James fires a couple of shots at the lizard, managing to hit him in the nose. The loud hiss makes his blood turn to ice, but he shoots again, and moves fast to another corner. The lizard changes its direction and chooses James as his prey.

Harry shoots at him once, earning a turn of the lizard head, and James aims at his neck. The lizard howls — _howls?_ — and leaps at him, so James has to run from him. As he stops not far from Harry he sends more bullets flying.

“At least that gets on its nerves,” he cries.

It does irritate the lizard enough that the next time it leaps, it opens its mouth as if to devour him, and that’s when Harry fires point-blank at its mouth. The lizard howls and stops, giving them enough time to get away from it; in a moment though, it has recovered and charges after them. James runs ahead of Harry, makes a circle and jumps on the lizard’s back with a sickening crush of a bone.

The lizard opens its mouth again, and Harry takes no time to react; he fires, the lizard slows down, he fires again, it stops. The monster shrieks, the sound piercing eardrums, the candle light fluttering, casting distorted shadows on the walls. James loosens his grip on the handgun, feeling an immense relief.

When the silence settles, Harry mops his brow. “So you have an improvisatory gift,” he says, out of breath. James smiles at him faintly and looks at the lizard, under which a pool of dark green blood is gathering.

 

“Looks like a victory. Of a dubious kind,” James remarks.

Harry turns abruptly. In the corner, a girl dressed in blue stands. It is hard to make her face out. She lingers there, but when Harry rushes to her, she immediately disappears.

Harry shakes his head in frustration. “What’s wrong with this place? Where is Cheryl, you bastards?!”

Sirens start to wail above them, and In a distance a heavy, punctuated toll can be heard.

 


End file.
